


cure you of disease

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/F, Reader Insert, Sick Character, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, mentions of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: you’re a sick omega, and nat’s too stuck in wolf form to take care of you





	cure you of disease

**Author's Note:**

> this the first ever fic i posted on tumblr after i took a long break from writing anything at all. oh, nostalgia.

You and Natasha had only been dating for a few months when you had gotten seriously sick. Not “Oh, fuck, this sucks, time to nap a little” sick, but “oh my God, get me to a hospital ASAP” sick. You were vomiting, couldn’t keep down food, could barely talk, and spent most of the time sleeping and running a low fever.

The good news was that being part of Tony Stark’s personal research team meant you got the star treatment: doctors at the head of their field drew your blood and gave you shots and took your blood pressure and God knows what else until someone, someone you later learned was Bruce Banner, told them to stop. You had been friends with him ever since you had been recruited by Stark personally from the CDC, and you two had talked extensively about deeply personal issues as you waited for results from labs or for papers to be printed - including your health. You’d been an extremely sickly child, and that persisted into adulthood. Your poor immune system and low energy has become manageable when you got older, but the occasional flare-up would still prevent you from doing work once every few months. After a full twenty-four hours of testing, all of which resulted in more questions than answers, he made the judgement call to stop everything.

Later, once you had woken up and could keep down more than chicken broth and tea, Banner would tell you that he knew you were just run down; working at Stark tower was a particularly emotionally and physically demanding job, and that he knew you just needed some rest and time for the hurricane of your life to quiet down for a little bit.

In truth, that was only half of the reason he made every person stop what they were doing and just leave you alone.

The other half was that he could clearly see that watching you in pain, and watching doctors stalk around you and talk in hushed voices, and not being able to do anything, was torturing Natasha. Her cycle of suppressants was up, and Bruce had taken her off of them for a few days to reset her tolerance to them. As she sat in the corner of the room in wolf form, her whining and pacing eventually became so bad that Clint had to come in and try to drag her out.

Her almost biting a doctor was the last straw. Clint, who happened another friend of yours, issued an ultimatum: either Natasha would quietly sit in the corner of your room, or she would placed in the special cage Stark had built for Bucky when he was first rescued.

She chose the former, and stubborn sat perked and alert for twenty-six hours straight. She watched carefully as doctors poked and prodded at you, Steve checked up on you (and Natasha, always reporting back to Bruce what she was doing to make sure it wasn’t interfering with your recovery), and people who worked under you attempted to get whatever they thought was necessary from you.

Once Clint had gotten back to Bruce’s lab, and was disinfecting the nasty scratches he had gotten from her, he would relay the scene with pain in his voice. “I’ve only ever seen, or really, heard of anyone doing something like that for someone they were mated to.”

Bruce shrugged. You had, on several occasions, actually, let it slip how much you liked the former Russian assassin. Of course, he had hung onto every word, like he was a teenage girl on Twitter and you and Natasha were the next big celebrity couple. “(Y/N) is really happy with Romanov, there’s a lot of love in that relationship. I wouldn’t blame Nat for,” he gestured to Clint’s wounds. “Whatever she did to you to make sure (Y/N) was safe…”

Once the doctors were stopped, Tony also sent out a building-wide email on your behalf; anyone who wished to bother you must see him first and get clearance in order to gain access to you. Funny enough, they were all denied entry, and you were left alone.

Steve still brought you food like clockwork, and Banner came in to make sure you weren’t getting worse, but other than that, if was just you and Natasha. Alone, together.

The second the last doctor left and Clint gave her a nod of approval, she jumped onto your bed, nuzzled her way under the covers, and rested her head on your hip. This position made it easy for your weak body to stroke her soft red fur, which brought you a great deal of comfort during your painful ordeal.

She was so attached to you. As you drifted in and out of consciousness she kept you warm, when you attempted to eat she sat beside you. Even when you took a bath she laid right there, on the floor, next to the tub, still keeping watch for intruders.

It’s three days before you can muster up the energy to speak. All you can whimper out is “I love you, Nat.” Her heart swells every time you mumble out the words, and she cuddles impossibly closer to you.

A full week and a half from when you first called in sick, Banner clears you to work again, and it’s a day after that he puts Natasha back on her suppressants. It’s two days after that that you see her again.

This time, it’s your personal office. You’re desperately trying to catch up on emails and grant proposals and block angry people who get ahold of your work email god knows how, when she closes your laptop with a single, perfectly manicured finger. Before you can look up and retaliate at the culprit who interrupted your work, she places your favorite food on top of it - chicken fried rice from the Chinese food place down the street, with a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea. You instantly melt.

You remember nothing from the past week, other than a few blips of vomiting and the one time Steve made you temporarily relocate to your desk chair so he could change your (frankly, disgusting) sheets. They were stained with tears, sweat, a bit of bile, not to mention the tea and soup you had spilled. At the time, you didn’t care that he was being nice, you only cared that you had to move and oh my God I’m in so much pain and this asshole is making me get up for Christ’s sake.

Natasha knows you have no memory of the time you were sick, and therefore don’t recall telling her “I love you.” She knows you feel it, though, and that’s enough. Honestly, she knows she wants to mate with you, and hide away in some uninhabited corner of the Godforsaken tower and have you call her “Alpha, my alpha” for hours and hours and days and days until you’re not just some regular omega, you’re her omega.

But she can’t do that right now, you’re too busy scarfing down greasy Chinese food and complaining about someone who emailed you about how the research you do is useless and you should get hit by a bus, or something.

Normally she listens to everything you say intently, but right now, she’s just enjoying being around you, enjoying watching you talk and eat and lick the end of chopsticks. Right now, she’s in love, and you’re in love, too, and that’s all she needs.


End file.
